hear my cry
by amillionsmiles
Summary: She wonders if he regrets it, those hundred years of parenthood that ended only in pain. / Kofuku, Daikoku, and the child they took care of for a century. Oneshot. Chapter 42 spoilers.


**A/N: **Chapter 42 gave me a lot of Kofuku/Daikoku/gods-and-shinki-trying-to-raise-children feelings. So, this is what became of it.

* * *

_i._

She trades in tears. Curses are her currency. _"Binbougami,"_ the ailing hiss, wives muttering under their breath as husbands gamble away their fortunes. The poor shuffle miserably under straw awnings, swatting away at flies. Despair rises from them in droves, like clouds of fleas, and she watches miserably, thinks: _this is my birthright. This is my blessing._

Some days it isn't so bad. Ratty-haired orphans chase each other, their smiles flashing underneath the coat of dirt. A young woman hands a trembling, slouched man a cup of tea. A family nestles together for warmth—the youngest has a chipped tooth and wrinkles his nose, but wriggles closer to his sister all the same. They might not have much, but they have each other. This, she cannot take away.

She cannot have it, either. The other gods leave her without shrine and shinki. She suffers silently, as those under her wing do.

Until Daikoku. Until a man with a strong, stubbled jaw and a voice like a father's, gruff but yielding, renames her, "Kofuku."

_Little luck._

_ii._

Kofuku cannot grant Daikoku riches, but she resolves that she will give him a child. She will make him _happy._

_iii._

Happiness comes in the form of Daigo—dark-eyed, stumbling little Daigo, with his face open and shining like a full moon and hair as black as night. He unfurls for them, pink-cheeked and dimpled, like cherry blossoms in bloom. She and Daikoku show him the moon. They cast shadow puppets on the walls of their hut, teach him a few hand-clap games, how to whistle for his dog, Jirou, how to trace the characters of his name in the dirt.

One night, Kofuku manages to persuade Daikoku to let them venture to the bridge so they can watch the fireworks. The sparkles crack open the sky like lightning, booming like thunder. Daigo reaches for her sleeve first, then Daikoku's, tugging with one hand while he points with the other: "Daddy, Daddy, look!"

Her heart prickles.

(The back of her neck does, too, but she ignores it.)

_iv._

Jirou dies. Daikoku finds Daigo a new puppy, his fur more mottled, the markings around his eyes slightly different. Daigo accepts the gift wordlessly. He does not cry.

_v._

They move to a new village so Daigo can start over and forget the friends that have forgotten him. Daikoku teaches him how to read. The two of them also start painting long hours into the night, until Daigo's eyelids flutter sleepily and he curls sideways, his head pillowed in Kofuku's lap. She learns lullabies while Daikoku tinkers with toys.

Neither of them count the years.

Neither of them wants to.

_vi._

The next Jirou dies, and then the next, and their little boy simply watches. Kofuku wonders if he comprehends any of it. Sometimes the dark pools of his eyes seem so wise, almost haunted, and other times they are blank. Innocent.

Daigo waits at the tree each day for his friends to come home from school. He knows more arithmetic than any of them—he has had many years to become acquainted with his numbers—but he is infinitely patient as they play. Daikoku puffs on his pipe while he keeps an eye on the boy, holding out his hand when the rest of the children leave for dinner.

"Can I invite some friends over, sometime?" Daigo asks.

"That's probably not a good idea," Kofuku answers gently, before holding out her arms.

There was a time when Daigo rushed into them eagerly, but his movements have grown more mechanical over the years. He squeezes her back stiffly, his face buried in her stomach, and Kofuku squashes the sadness brewing behind her eyes.

_vii._

"All the other kids' parents get older. Why do you two stay young all the time?" The air is sticky with heat, and Daigo's face is flushed as he stares them down, demanding an answer.

"We _are_ old," Kofuku says simply. Beside her, Daikoku remains silent.

It isn't a complete lie. Kofuku _does_ feel old; her back has started to ache, a peculiar sort of pain.

She forces herself not to ask why.

_viii._

She is a goddess of misery, of misfortune. She is a silly, misguided little girl, hungry for happiness in a world where the only meals she can provide are drenched in hopelessness. She _tried,_ Kofuku sobs, swallowing past the bile and the blight rippling from her neck down to her waist. She wanted it to be perfect. She wanted to make someone _happy_ for once.

But Kofuku has lived for ages. Perfection never lasts. She should know—she is poverty, knocking on the door, a reminder that luck will only hold out for so long. Everything she touches sours eventually, and Daigo—Daigo, with his skin fuzzy like a peach, has shriveled under her care, retreating into a shell, and all the while his eyes cut her like a knife, asking: "_Why can't I grow? Why does everyone leave us? Why? Why? Why?"_

Daikoku has disappeared. She hadn't meant to collapse in front of him. She'd been proud of holding out for so long, but as she bent to pick up a bowl from the kitchen, a flame seemed to crack over her spine, leaving her hunched over with her breath coming in short gasps. Daikoku walked in and just as quickly walked out, but not before she caught his expression: misery mixed with shame.

Kofuku grimaces. She wants to call him back, tell him that it's okay, that this is no heavier burden than she has seen others bear. But she can't speak.

She can only grieve.

_ix._

In the end, they weather the storm together, she and Daikoku. They scrub every pot and plate in the house until it shines, until the reflections no longer hold the ghostly image of a little boy, wide-eyed and wondering. They drink themselves dizzy and dance under the moonlight and forget about the toddler-shaped space they used to leave between them.

They heal.

But some nights, Kofuku wonders. Wonders where it all went wrong, and if she'll ever be able to lift the heaviness off Daikoku's shoulders. She wonders if he regrets it, those hundred years of parenthood that ended only in pain.

But maybe that's what parenthood is, in the end, for mortals and gods alike: pain, with flashes of happiness. In the end, Kofuku is glad for it. She has become wiser, now. She has had the luxury of loving, and at last she understands.

Because the bittersweet beauty of children is that you let them grow.

You let them go.


End file.
